


That'll Do

by dalmatienne



Category: Men's Hockey RPF
Genre: Big Pig Energy, Dubious Summoning Techniques, First Kiss, Friends to Lovers, M/M, Playoffs, Supernatural Elements, author is an emotional wreck over both the carolina hurricanes and babe (1995)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-07
Updated: 2019-05-07
Packaged: 2020-02-27 13:42:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,311
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18740212
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dalmatienne/pseuds/dalmatienne
Summary: Warren yawns and caps his marker, feeling a little woozy from exhaustion and the marker’s fumes. When he glances to his left, Svech’s eyebrows knit together as he stares mournfully down at the sheet. He looks conflicted about ruining hotel property.“It's for the greater good,” Warren says and knocks their shoulders together. “It's for the cup.”“For the cup,” Sebastian and Teuvo intone from the other side of the sheet.





	That'll Do

**Author's Note:**

> If you recognize your name in this story, please, for the love of all things holy and good, click away now. This is entirely a work of fiction.
> 
> This is just an extended, intricate love letter to both [Hamilton the Pig](https://www.instagram.com/hamiltondtr/) and the movie Babe (1995). It was also intended to be a, "yay the Carolina Hurricanes are moving onto Round Two!" celebration. Then it turned into a, "yay the Carolina Hurricanes are doing great in Round Two!" celebration. Now I present it to you as a, "yay the Carolina Hurricanes swept the Islanders and are now in the Eastern Conference Finals!" celebration.
> 
> Shout out to the indomitable [Mythisea](https://archiveofourown.org/users/mythisea) for _extremely_ last minute hand-holding and beta-ing. Additional shout out to light of my life, the ethereal Ellie for even more hand-holding and coaching me through how to write a poorly-attempted summoning. She wants everyone to know that she wrote summoning/incantation herself and used google translate for most of the Latin—it's supposed to be a badly done summoning.
> 
> In light of this disclaimer, a belated Beltane to all who celebrate.

 

The world is filled with stories. Good stories, bad stories. Well-written and grandly orated stories, voices ringing to the rafters of gilded halls; stories whispered to no one in the dead of night, sound lost to the rustle of leaves in the wind. Stories about everything, stories about nothing at all. Boring stories, stupid stories, stories that can break a heart with words hurled like rocks against a glass window.

Happy stories. Soft stories, with fleecy endings and periods landing like kisses on the cheek. Triumphant stories whose sentences read like trumpets sounding a _réveille_.

But above all else, it is universally agreed–barring one controversial incident regarding the 1995 winner of the Best Picture Golden Globe–that the _best_ stories are about one thing in particular:

Pigs.

 

 

**Part I: The Way Things Are**

_If I had words to make a day for you_

_I’d sing you a morning golden and new._

 

“Pigs!” Willie groans, shaking his head in fatherly disappointment as he takes in the ruin of empty plates spread across their table. “You’re all pigs!”

The boys oink back at him, Warren determined to be the loudest of the bunch even as his captain rolls his eyes at him. They’re giddy and giggly, flushed with disbelieving victory. Warren is still vibrating with it, that unbelievable elation that their team just clinched a playoff spot, after a nearly-decade long drought. Wedged between Svech and Dougie, he grins up and snorts at Willie with all the rest.

It's late Thursday night and they're bone tired and sore but they managed to get into the offseason. This deserves a celebration. It took less time than Warren thought it would to find a bar with an open kitchen, though the manager swears that any place that has any state pride would open its kitchen for them. The place is tiny, a ma-and-pa type place just off Blue Ridge Road with a real smoker and pit out back. The acid tang of vinegar tingles his tongue and puckers his lips, the pulled pork almost melting in his mouth. It's nowhere close to being nutritionist approved, but the _Carolina Hurricanes_ just clinched a playoff spot.

To _not_ celebrate with barbecue is almost sacrilege.

As the oinking subsides, Willie settles into the booth they've claimed. They eagerly make room for him, Sebastian shoving in closer to Teuvo, Teuvo nudging up against Dougie. Warren slides over so he’s half in Svech’s lap, grinning over his shoulder as Svech bitches about him being “so _heavy_ , Foegs.” Willie flicks them a smile and slides a menu out from under one of the plates that's stained Carolina-clay-orange with sauce. He holds it out to read it, pulling the same move Warren’s dad does when he forgets his reading glasses at home. 

“Need us to read the entrées for you, old man?” Marty chirps from the other side of the table. Willie bats his reaching hand away.

“No respect for your elders. Is this how you would treat Roddy, if he were here?”

“Roddy’s _earned_ my respect.”

“Your _respect_ , huh?” Willie repeats, giving Marty a look over the edge of his menu that makes Warren glad he’s not on the receiving end. Marty just waggles his eyebrows and mouths at the straw poking out of his glass of iced tea, sucking until his cheeks go hollow.

Willie rolls his eyes like he’s a bastion of maturity in a sea of childishness and flags down the one waitress in the dining area. He orders brisket, greens, and hushpuppies for the table. Warren grins and knocks his knee up against Svech’s under the table. Truly a meal fit for champions.

Most of the old-and-marrieds dip before Willie gets his food, even Marty bouncing to go home to his little girl. Svech makes no move to leave—Warren can see him texting his mom, even if he can’t read it—so Warren settles in, pulling the basket of hushpuppies closer when the waitress deposits it on the table. Dougie, trapped in the middle of the booth, sets to gently chirping at Warren and the Finns in turn.

It’s easy and soft and Warren can feel himself drifting in the waves of conversation. He snipes back at Dougie when it’s his turn and he scrolls through Twitter memes with Svech but for the most part he just basks in the feeling of contentment and belonging.

Then Seb gets a look on his face, one that’s part mischief and part curiosity and one hundred percent wakes Warren back up.

“Daddy,” Seb says in his little-shit voice he only ever uses to rile up the captain. Willie groans at the nickname, wipes his hand off on a paper napkin before reaching over to scrub at Seb’s hair. Sebby ducks the hand and continues, “Tell us more about playoffs.”

“You’re such a little shit,” Willie grouses fondly. He pops a hushpuppy into his mouth and asks, “What do you want to know?”

“Is it as exhausting as everyone says it is?”

“Are we going to do any more storm surges?”

“Are we good enough?”

“What if we get swept?” Ginner asks, small, voice as soft as his hair.

Willie smiles back at them, all his years in the league showing on his face. He tucks the last bite of brisket into his mouth, chews and swallows. With the weight of an oracle speaking a prophecy into existence, he says, “We’re not going to get swept out of the playoffs.”

 

* * *

 

“Oh my god, we’re going to get swept out of the playoffs.”

Faulk nearly trips over his own skateguards to clap a hand over Haydn’s mouth before he can get too hysterical about it but, yeah, Warren can see where he’s coming from. They’re down two-zero in the series and sure they were able to push it to overtime in game two, but overtime doesn’t mean shit if the other team scores first.

There are no loser points in playoff hockey.

Beneath Faulk’s hand, Haydn squeals like a stuck pig, eyes wild and darting around the room. Faulk yanks his hand back in disgust. Even from across the room, Warren can see how Faulk’s palm glistens with spit. Haydn smacks his lips and makes a face, sticking his tongue out.

“You need to wash your hands, dude,” he bitches up at Faulk, apparently shaken from his deterministic panic by the rancid taste of another guy’s mitts.

The room erupts into a cacophony of chirps and doomsday wailing. Warren watches, throws a tape ball at Ginner when he says something particularly distressing about the defending Stanley Cup champs. All of the noise falls away when Willie stands and makes his way to the center of the locker room.

“I assure you,” Willie says, slowly casting his gaze around the room, looking every man in the eye. “As long as we keep at it, as long as we believe in ourselves and play our game, we will win.” 

Warren can’t take the sincerity in Willie’s eyes, the conviction in his voice. He turns away with the intention of fussing with his pads and instead meets Svech’s eyes, big and wide and afraid, looking for him.

It’s immediately apparent that neither of them are assured.

That’s when the panic sets in.

 

* * *

 

Usually, Warren is very good at remaining level-headed in the face of sticky situations. Identify the problem, discuss the problem, solve the problem. Sure, he frequently skips the “discuss” step and sometimes solving the problem means drinking enough to forget about it, but Warren can _easily_ do that without resorting to histrionics. Just point him in the direction of the nearest dive bar or NC State party.

Except Warren can’t exactly get frat-boy wasted, not when the team’s facing an undignified first round exit and Svech is curled into a tight ball of anxiety and sadness in the bus back to the hotel next to him. It hurts something deep in Warren to see his bro all strung out like this, multiplies his own fears and worries like those trippy infinity mirrors in the swanky clubs downtown.

So Warren sighs, resigns himself to being the adultier adult in the situation—one of the worst parts of being on the youngest team in the league—and throws an arm over Svech’s shoulder, tugging him up against his side.

“You good there, bro?”

It’s a dumb question. They both know that, but it’s not like hockey players are known for intellectually stimulating conversation or thought-provoking questions anyway.

Svech mumbles something and turns in his seat, tucking his head up under Warren’s chin. Warren pats at his shoulder and hums the chorus of “Raise Up,” but softly, like a lullaby. Beside him, Svech snorts and Warren gets his seat kicked from behind for his efforts—Pesce never did appreciate musical talent when he heard it. Despite the kicking, Warren keeps up the humming and the patting until he can feel Svech’s muscles loosening as he slumps further into Warren’s space.

When Svech speaks again, he says it into Warren’s collarbone, breath coming out hot and damp against the starched fabric of his dress shirt. “Not good enough,” he whispers.

And, like. That’s dumb, that’s really dumb. In fact, it’s so dumb that Warren has to tell him so.

“Don’t be dumb,” he says. Unthinkingly he turns to face Svech and gets a faceful of soft hair. It smells like Old Spice. “You got on the board, bud. You’re doing _so_ much. Youngest player to net two goals in his first playoff game!”

Warren bounces his a shoulder a little, tries to get a little pep into his bro. Svech just grumbles and tries to burrow in closer. It tickles.

“Then why aren’t we _winning_?”

And Warren doesn’t have an answer for that, so he just goes back to humming and patting at Svech’s shoulder. He moves his hand up to sort of pet at Svech’s hair, earning a huff of warm breath against his neck.

Suddenly, Sebastian pops up from the seat in front of them, making Warren jump. The passing streetlights bathe his angular face in alternating shadow and stark relief as he stares down at them. His eyes are narrowed and the corners of his lips are turned down. The DC humidity has turned his hair slightly frizzy, and when the light catches on the fine strands it creates a halo around his head.

“You want to win?” he asks, voice quiet.

As if that’s even a real question.

“Of course,” Svech whispers back. He sits up in his seat, leaving Warren cold all along his side. “Of _course_.”

Seb nods, steadies himself against the back of the seat as the bus hits a series of potholes.

“Meet at Teuvo’s room once we get to the hotel.” Seb stares them down until they agree and then, with a final singular nod, he retreats back to his own seat just as suddenly as he had appeared.

Warren loves his team, he really does: they’re supportive, a family away from his family, and they’re creative and fun. Some of them might like to ham it up for the cameras a little too much—and he includes himself in there—but it’s all in good fun.

But sometimes, they’re weird. _Weird_ -weird, and all Warren can do is go along with it.

The bus bumps over _another_ pothole and Svech comes to rest along his side again. At least they’re going through this together.

 

* * *

 

When they knock on Teuvo’s door, it’s almost midnight and the only other people in the hotel hallway, washed out in the sickly light, are two businessmen in wrinkled suits. No one answers after the first round of knocks but before Warren can call Sebby and bitch him out, the door opens and Warren is dragged inside the room by a bony hand gripped tight around his wrist. Svech follows under his own power, eyebrows raised.

Once they’re both in the room, Seb drops Warren’s wrist and darts around Svech to close and lock the door, peering out of the peephole. Warren stares at him in his baggy Canes sweats and Keira Knightley haircut and shoots Svech an incredulous look. Svech shrugs back and they move further into the room.

All of the lights in the room are turned on, including the bathroom light, and the air conditioning unit is turned up high. Teuvo is stretched out on one of the beds, the ugly comforter scrunched beneath him, his eyebrows furrowed. He’s typing away on his phone and doesn’t even look up at them when they take a seat on the other bed.

Apparently appeased by whatever he saw or didn’t see outside the peephole, Seb comes back and throws himself on the bed next to Teuvo. The bed bounces and jostles Teuvo who snarks something at Seb in Finnish. Sebby responds and then in the same breath turns to Svech and Warren to ask, “Did anyone see you come in here?”

“Not really.”

“Two businessmen maybe? They didn’t give a shit though.”

Sebastian’s brows furrow but he doesn’t press. They sit in awkward silence as Teuvo continues texting and Seb seems caught in his own thoughts. On the table between the beds, the clock flashes 12:00. It takes Warren a full two minutes to realize that the clock isn’t actually keeping time.

Just as Warren is about to ask if he can go back to his own room and sleep off this tragedy of a game, Svech asks, “So...on bus, what do you mean? When you ask if we want to win?”

A shake works its way through Seb’s body, like a dog shaking water off its coat. “Yes,” he says, bright eyes focusing first on Svech then Warren. “Yes. We need a plan.”

“A plan?”

“To win,” Seb says with a roll of his eyes, like it’s so obvious.

“What, like improve our special units and close up the holes in our defense?” Warren asks. He leans back on his elbows, tired and sore. His thighs spread and one nudges up against Svech’s, where he’s sitting next to him. Svech throws him a quick half-smirk before he turns his attention back to Seb.

 _“No_ , not like make our power play work. Or, not just power play. Or—” Sebby makes a frustrated noise and turns back to look at Teuvo as if for backup. Teuvo only looks up from his phone when Seb smacks at his ankle but even then it’s just to make a face at him. 

“Don’t ask me to back you up. I still don’t think this is a good idea,” Teuvo says petulantly. A look of absolute betrayal comes across Seb’s face and he launches himself at Teuvo.

Warren watches the half-hearted tussle and yawns. If you’ve seen one Finnish scuffle, you’ve seen ‘em all. Besides, Warren knows like three half-butchered phrases in Russian and absolutely nothing in Finnish so Seb and Teuvo’s whisper-shouted volley of insults don’t mean jack shit to him. Svech seems moderately more intrigued by the exchange but eventually he too gives up and stretches out on the mattress next to Warren.

The volume and agitation in Seb and Teuvo’s voices keep rising until Teuvo exclaims in English, “Fine, yes, it helped, okay?”

Seb allows himself to be rolled off and to the other side of the bed, the corners of his mouth tipped up in smug victory even as his hair is a fucking mess.

“Uh,” Warren says and struggles to sit back up. “What, exactly, helped? And with what?”

Seb turns back to him and Svech. He blows a strand of hair out of his face and says, “Teuvo helped summon a demon to help win the cup in 2015.”

With a yelp, Teuvo reaches over to smack him and hisses, “It wasn't a _demon_ , we just summoned some _help_.”

But Warren is already nodding along because like yeah, that tracks. Svech, when Warren looks over, is also nodding. Teuvo looks even more offended by their reactions. He huffs and turns back to his phone.

Sebastian smiles at Warren and Svech like, _yeah?_ And honestly? Warren can sort of see the appeal. They could really use some firepower—hell-firepower?—to get them through the round, and maybe a nice old-fashioned summoning could give the boys the juice they need. Like, he doesn’t _really_ think they could summon a demon, but Warren took Intro to Psych. He knows the power of a placebo.

“Okay,” he says, “so how do we summon a demon?”

“ _Help_ ,” Teuvo emphasizes.

“How do we summon _help_?”

Teuvo's face twists a little but when Seb jabs him in the ribs he spits out, “Let me make a call. I'll get the instructions.”

Beside him, Svech makes a face like, _what the fuck?_ All Warren can do is shrug. Might as well try it. Svech rolls his eyes but he knocks an ankle against Warren’s, so Warren can solidly say he’s in it to win it, too.

 

* * *

 

For a major metropolitan area, it takes them forever to find a convenience store that's still open after midnight.

Yet another reason why DC is fucking bullshit.

Finally they locate a twenty-four hour 7-11 five blocks away from their hotel and like, the selection is shit, but there’s nowhere else they can pick up the supplies at this hour. Teuvo's instructions—he won’t say who his contact is, but Warren doesn’t particularly want to know—call for the usual array of props from a Buffy filler episode: candles, herbs, and a focusing object.

Warren feels like an extra in a particularly low-budget ‘90s movie about witches and the real power of friendship or some shit.

The cashier barely even looks up when they enter the store, just points to the far corner when Warren carefully asks her if they carry any candles. “We’re out of the Obama ones, though,” she adds, the metal clasps on her braids clinking against each other as she shakes her head.

“That sucks,” Warren says, because it feels like he should. The cashier nods, snaps her gum, and goes back to swiping on her phone.

While Seb and Teuvo scour the food aisle for the necessary herbs, Warren and Svech make their way to the candles. As they stand in front of the small display, huddled underneath the cold fizzle of the fluorescent lighting and shivering against the icy blast of the nearby freezers, Warren begins to doubt the actualization of their plan.

“Teuvo say small white candles,” Svech says, staring out at the rows of celebrity saint candles, “none of these are small.”

Warren picks up one of the Pope Francis candles to examine. It is not, in fact, small; rather, it’s about the size of a tallboy can of beer, with a brightly colored label and illustration of Pope Francis smiling benevolently. The wax smells faintly like new tennis balls, but— 

“It _is_ white,” he allows. He tips the candle so Svech can see the admittedly white wax.

Svech hums and shrugs so he and Warren just grab two more Pope Francises, a Beyonce, and a LeBron James—“He’s GOAT, we want to be GOAT, it’s important,” Svech huffs as he cradles LeBron in the crook of his elbow—before heading back to the front of the store. Warren finds that he is kind of disappointed that they were out of Obama candles.

Teuvo and Sebby are waiting for them by the DC souvenir shelf, picking at the scratchy tourist shirts with identical pinched looks on their faces. When Warren and Svech show them the candles they found, Teuvo holds up their own find: a small tub of spreadable cheese dubiously claiming to be "garlic and herb" flavored.

“It has what we need,” Teuvo says with a shrug. “Probably.”

“Probably? You’re willing to bet on convenience store cheese _probably_ having what we need?” Warren bitches, rearranging Beyonce and the Francises into one arm so he can grab the cheese packet and squint at the ingredient list. “It literally just says _spices_. Spices aren’t herbs.”

“Some spices are herbs. Don’t pretend you know about spices or herbs, you think black pepper is spicy.”

“Hey, I’m not the one here who doesn’t even season his chicken.”

“Oh my god,” Seb groans and snatches the packet of cheese out of Warren’s hands. “We all white here, _no one_ seasons their chicken.”

“ _I_ season chicken,” Svech grumbles and lets out an “oof” when Warren jabs an elbow into his side. “Fine. _Mama_ season chicken.”

“Okay,” Seb says over him. “We have candles, he have herbs. What next, the focusing object?” At Teuvo’s pissy nod, Seb turns back to the shelf of kitschy tourist crap and picks up a shitty metallic souvenir mug. “This work?”

“It's silver and it's a cup,” Warren agrees hesitantly when Seb holds it out consideringly. “I guess we could focus our Stanley Cup dreams on it.”

“We tape over DC,” Svech declares, frowning at the flowery _Washington, DC!_ script on the side of the cup. The rest of them nod because, like, _duh_.

They pay for the five candles, packet of cheese, and silver cup with Sebastian’s card. The cashier takes one look at their purchases, double charges them for bags but throws in a red Bic lighter for free. As they shuffle out the automatic doors, she calls after them, “Really is too bad we’re out of Obama candles. You could’ve used him.”

 

* * *

 

They don’t talk on the walk back to the hotel. Something niggles at the back of Warren’s mind, some odd sense of apprehension mixed with excitement. It weighs on him like the soupy swamp air of DC, some inexplicable fear that they’re walking into this like lambs to the slaughter.

Or is it _pigs_ to the slaughter?

Warren’s always been kind of shit at remembering turns of phrases.

The concierge smiles blandly at them when they slink into the lobby. They sneak upstairs and dart into the room so that they aren’t caught out after curfew. Svech dumps the bag of supplies on one of the beds, carefully separating Beyonce and LeBron from the Francises.

“Okay,” Seb says after they’ve all stared at the lackluster supplies for thirty seconds without speaking. “Okay, Teuvo, what now?”

Teuvo rolls his eyes and begins yanking at the shitty comforter on the other bed, pulling it back to reveal the crisp white sheets underneath. “Now,” he says as he wrestles the sheet off the bed, “now we set up the circle.”

It takes a lot of grunting and cursing in three languages, but between the four of them they manage to push the furniture to the edges of the hotel room, clearing a space in the middle where Teuvo spreads out the sheet. They draw a sloppy pentagram on a hotel sheet with the permanent markers they’ve all learned to keep in their pants pockets, just in case someone wants an autograph. In the end, it bears only a passing resemblance to the Pinterest picture Teuvo had pulled up for reference.

Warren yawns and caps his marker, feeling a little woozy from exhaustion and the marker’s fumes. When he glances to his left, Svech’s eyebrows knit together as he stares mournfully down at the sheet. He looks conflicted about ruining hotel property.

“It's for the greater good,” Warren says and knocks their shoulders together. “It's for the cup.”

“For the cup,” Sebastian and Teuvo intone from the other side of the sheet.

Once the pentagram is finished, Teuvo shoos Warren and Svech out at around one o’clock with instructions to nap, take a shower, and come back at three am.

“The witching hour,” he explains with a sigh when the other three look at him blankly. “When demons and other magic are strongest. That’s when we will do the summoning.”

“I thought we weren't summoning a _demon_ ,” Warren can't help but snark. Teuvo frowns and bodily shoves him and Svech into the hallway, firmly closing the door behind them. Svech yawns and slumps into Warren the entire thirty foot walk to their own room.

 

* * *

 

It's a bitch and a half to wake up after a too-short nap, still dead-tired from the playoff game that went into overtime, _jesus_ , but Warren somehow manages. The effort it takes to tug Svech out of bed is Herculean, but eventually they make their way to Teuvo's room two minutes before three. In a repeat of fuckin’ three hours ago, Seb yanks them in as soon as they knock, slamming the door behind them and checking through the peephole like there are people out there who are actually alive at three in the morning and want to spy on shifty hockey players.

With Svech following at his heels, Warren shuffles into the room. Unlike earlier, almost all the lights are out, the room lit up only by the five flickering candles arranged at the five points of their pentagram and one bedside lamp on its dimmest setting. Once his eyes adjust to the dimness, Warren is surprised to see a yawning Dougie standing barefoot by one of the Pope Francis candles, his sleep-mussed baby mullet curly and wild. He gives them a sleepy wave.

Warren waves back.

“We needed someone for the fifth point,” Seb says as he ducks past Warren, like he's the one running the whole thing. “Dougie was only one who answered the group text.”

“Light sleeper,” Dougie says through another yawn, shooting them an aw-shucks smile. “Besides, don’t pretend like you’d want anyone else here.”

“Why the fuck are you still wearing shoes?” Teuvo demands. He strides across the room, carefully stepping over the lit candles, and bustles Warren and Svech back to the entryway. “You’re ruining the vibe. Take them off. You’ll spoil _everything_.”

Warren isn’t awake enough to really bitch about Teuvo's curt instructions, but that doesn’t stop him from grumbling under his breath as he kicks off his shoes. He and Svech leave their slides by the door and move to take their places at two other points of the pentagram on the ruined hotel sheet. Svech pushes him aside to get to the point with the LeBron candle, shooting Warren a smug grin that he can’t help but return.

Seb shoves them both aside to set the silver cup—with stick tape carefully applied over the _Washington, DC!_ on the side—in the middle of the pentagram, the opened packet of garlic-and-herb cheese placed reverently beside it. Teuvo flicks off the bedside light and the room is cast in flickering shadows, their faces lit eerily from the candles on the floor. Sebastian and Teuvo take their places at the remaining two points, Beyonce and the last Pope Francis respectively.

The five of them shuffle around awkwardly, waiting for the go signal, the puck drop to start this whole summoning deal. Finally Warren clears his throat and asks, “Should we hold hands?”

Teuvo gives him a look that’s half-bored and half-annoyed. “Why the fuck would we need to hold hands?”

Warren, who had been about to reach for Svech, lets his hand drop.

“Anyway,” Teuvo says and pulls out his phone, the light from it bright and harsh, “let’s get to it. Okay, pentagram? Check. Candles? Check. Offering and focus object? Check. Protective circle? Oh.”

“Oh?” Svech repeats. “What you mean, oh?”

“Most summoning requires protection. Last time, we made the circle out of salt.”

“We didn’t get salt,” Warren says. His hand twitches out to Svech again, like it’s possessed or some shit and the summoning hasn’t even started.

Teuvo waves him off. “We don’t really need it. As long as there’s...intent, we’ll be fine.”

“Intent for what?” Dougie asks and Seb groans, “Can we _please_ just summon the demon? I’m tired.”

“Help, not demon,” Teuvo corrects even as he brings up his phone again. “So, here we go.” He clears his throat and begins reading. His voice is strong even as he stumbles over the Latin that is even more foreign to him than English, and Warren feels a shiver wrack his body:

“ _Isti autem, invocato_

_Voluntatis teneantur_

_Ositum aperi nobis_

_Ut placeat tibi_

_Accedens tendunt_

_Participes tui scientia_

_Participes tui sus_.”

Teuvo trips and stutters over the last line, and the final syllable echoes in the cramped hotel room.

The air in the room seems impossibly heavy, closing in around them. Warren struggles to remind himself to breathe, gasps in a lungful when he realizes he had been holding his breath. Svech turns to him, all wide dark eyes and cheekbones illuminated by the celebrity saint candles.

For a long moment, nothing happens in the hotel room.

Suddenly, the air conditioning unit rattles and knocks three times before kicking on. A blast of freezing air overwhelms the room and one of the candles—LeBron, in front of Svech—splutters out.

Someone squeaks and Warren cannot in good faith say it isn’t him.

His hand shoots out and finds Svech’s reaching for him in the near darkness. They clutch at each other’s fingers, the space between their palms sweaty and clammy. Across the circle, Dougie looks considerably more awake, drawn up to his full height and staring at the curls of smoke drifting up from LeBron. Sebastian and Teuvo, when Warren glances at them, have their eyes trained on the silver cup.

They wait in silence for several more minutes. Warren starts to feel a restlessness in his shoulders and hips, fights off the urge to shift his weight from foot to foot. Svech’s fingers twitch slightly in his grasp. Slowly, the heavy feeling in the air dissipates and Warren takes a deep breath, shaking out the stiffness in his shoulders. Teuvo’s eyes flick up to look at him and then dart back to the cup.

When nothing else happens, Warren fakes a laugh and forces out, “Well that was a waste of time. I can't believe we got up at three in the morning to do this.”

“Definitely a first for me,” Dougie adds.

Seb’s mouth twists to the side, his gaze still fixed on the cup, but Teuvo shrugs and says, “Told you I don’t do this a lot. In 2015, I didn’t even have to read. But,” he adds with a glance down at the shitty silver mug sitting in the middle of the pentagram, “I guess it was worth a shot.”

Sebastian crouches down and blows out the remaining four candles.

 

* * *

 

The trip back to Raleigh the next morning is an extended exercise in exhaustion. Warren feels almost hungover, he’s so tired: the bright lights of the airport sear his eyes and the overlapping sounds of his teammates’ chatter and ambient noises of the airport grate on his ears. Sebby double fists large cups of coffee, sniping in Finnish at Teuvo.

Annoyingly, Svech doesn’t seem at all affected by their late night attempts at summoning the darker powers. He laughs and jostles Warren as soon as they get settled on the plane, stealing one of his airpods when Warren thumbs over to his chill playlist.

Neither of them bring up the failed summoning.

Back at their arena, the team falls into the usual day-after-a-big-game routine. They work out, they watch video. A couple of the vets chirp Warren when he gets caught yawning on the stationary bike.

Nothing feels off, or different. Warren doesn’t feel any cold spots, or at least, nothing out of the ordinary, given that half his life is spent in an ice rink. He’s not an idiot, he’s seen an episode or two of Buzzfeed Unsolved, he knows what to look for: cold spots, flickering lights, buzzing voices.

And there’s...nothing.

Which is kind of disappointing, but it’s not like Warren thought the summoning was gonna do anything.

 

* * *

 

He and Svech grab post-practice lunch at a deli downtown, a cute family-owned place outside a small brewery. There’s a statue outside of the brewery: a pig the size of a small horse, painted like the North Carolina flag. As they pass it, it almost looks like— 

“Foeg-daddy,” Svech calls, his voice curling fondly over the nickname, “you coming? Or your joints too old to keep up?”

Warren springs forward to try to grab Svech in a headlock, roughhousing their way into the deli much to the delight of the college kid behind the counter.

He completely forgets about how the pig statue had seemed to wink at him, the batting of a cool concrete eye lost to the rest of the afternoon.

 

 

**Part Two: Pig of Destiny**

_I would make this day last for all time,_

_Give you a night deep in moonshine._

 

One minute.

It takes one minute for Warren’s elation to morph into abject terror, heart crawling up his throat to choke him.

That soaring feeling of scoring the first goal is sucked away the second Ovechkin and Svech’s gloves hit the ice. Someone wraps their arm around him and tethers him to the bench. Warren’s vision swims when Svech drops to the ice, Ovechkin on top of him and not stopping. Warren’s yelling, he knows he is, but the words are meaningless in the angry roar of the crowd.

As Faulk helps Svech off the ice, handing him off to trainers who usher him down the tunnel, Sebastian gives Warren a wide-eyed look. In that look, Warren can read both fear and all-consuming anger. His whole body vibrates with a resolution that Warren’s echoes, even as his stomach turns and his throat closes up. While Willie and Jordy dart around the ice, arguing with and yelling at the refs and Ovechkin in turn, Teuvo bumps into him, resting against him in a rare display of comfort. When Warren turns to him, his face is pale.

“Help isn’t free,” he says, low and ominous.

“What does that mean?” Warren demands but Teuvo is already shuffling back into position.

The end of the period finds them still up by one, but that doesn’t make up for the news about Svech. Not really. Warren tries to find out what’s up but the trainers and Rod gently stonewall him, saying that Svech is being taken care of but won’t return to the game. They steer him back to his stall, one of the trainers shoving a bottle into his hands with strict instructions to hydrate, like Warren doesn’t know that.

Warren mouths at the water bottle and does a cursory sweep of the locker room. Across the room, Dougie is talking to the media. His face is pale and drawn and he, too, keeps shooting anxious glances at the trainers and Rod. He looks as tragic as Warren feels.

Then Warren glances over at Teuvo. He’s standing alone, frowning down at his gloves and worrying his bottom lip. Instinct and morbid curiosity give energy to his legs, pushing him in Teuvo’s direction.

“What did you mean out there?” he whispers as he crowds into Teuvo’s space. From a few stalls over, Marty gives them a weird look and Warren tries to school his face back into something a little less we-may-have-summoned-a-demon-who-hurt-my-best-friend. He tries again, “What did you mean when you said help isn’t free?”

Teuvo gives him an impatient glance, sweat darkening his hair. “What do you think I meant? We summon the help, we give the help an offering to pay. If the help doesn’t like the offering…” Teuvo trails off in a shrug. Under his mask of cool indifference, he looks shaken.

Anger and frustration gnaw at Warren’s stomach, turn his cheeks red.

“So what, the fuckin’ demon didn’t like the cheese? It was lactose intolerant or some shit? It said, ‘Fuck the cheese, this Russian boy is a much better snack’?”

“ _Help_. And—maybe. I don’t know. I don’t exactly do this a lot, you know.”

“Yeah, you’ve mentioned. So…what now?”

“So we do it for him. For Svech,” Sebastian says, suddenly at their side, tucked in as close as can be with the three of them still in their pads. “If he was—if the help has been paid, then we use it, and we win.”

“And if it wasn’t—if we didn’t really summon anything, if it was just fucking Ovechkin fucking with us, fucking with Svech?” Warren’s eyes dart over to the hallway leading to the trainer’s rooms, the doorway yawningly empty. Seb snaps his fingers, bringing Warren’s attention back to him.

“Then we win anyway.”

His dark eyes are steely and Warren can see in them the captain Sebastian’s destined to be. Warren’s still scared and pissed at what happened to Svech, but there’s not much else he can do but go out and play hockey.

They win, they do it: 5-0, another goal for Warren, two for Dougie, assists for Sebby and Teuvo. The screams of PNC Arena ring in their ears. The Hurricanes’ first playoff win in nearly a decade, and Svech is in the hospital after getting knocked the fuck out on ice.

Warren is _so_ happy, and he feels _so_ guilty for it.

 

* * *

 

“So what, you think demon possesses Ovechkin, gives me concussion, because it doesn’t like shit cheese?”

“ _Help_ ,” Teuvo whines even as Seb says, “It was pretty shit cheese.”

“Did you seriously think _sage_ was one of the herbs in a 7-11 brand spreadable cheese?” Dougie asks from where he’s browsing the sparse bookshelves in Svech’s living room. Sebastian and Teuvo immediately start bitching at him about the cheese, calling him a nerd. Warren plops down on the couch next to Svech, slinging an arm around him that’s maybe a little too careful, a little too protective.

The blinds are drawn on the large windows lining the living room in deference to the trainers’ concussion protocol instructions, though green-tinged light from the bright afternoon filters in along the edges. In the kitchen, Mama Svechnikova is cooking up a storm, humming along to the radio and clinking dishes gently.

It’s a beautiful day, for all that they’re discussing the possibility of having actually summoned a demon the other day.

Svech huffs out a breath and rolls his eyes, turning to share a small secret smile with Warren. He looks tired, pale, a ring of purple beneath his eyes, but… But he doesn’t look that bad. He’s not dizzy or nauseous, just tired and hurting. Warren had taken quiet inventory of him as soon as Svech had opened the front door. Svech had made a face at him like he knew _exactly_ what Warren was doing, but Warren didn’t care that he was caught out: he was just glad to see his best friend back on his feet.

“What do you think?” Svech asks, just low enough to not capture the attention of the others. Warren likes it; it makes him feel some kind of way. “You think we unleash demon on National Hockey League?”

Warren swallows hard and shrugs. “I didn’t really feel like there was, uh, help on our side? It just—we saw you and—we won the game. For you,” he adds, lamely.

The small smile drops off Svech’s face, but he doesn’t look upset, just contemplative. His eyebrows furrow and his mouth pulls a little to one side. His shirt is cottony soft and warm under Warren’s arm and the sagging couch cushions push them close together until their hips bump. At last, Svech nods decisively, relaxing into the back of the couch and Warren’s hold. “Okay. So we win, we good, like Willie says. Teuvo full of shit,” he says, loud enough to startle an offended noise out of the Finn in question.

“I told you guys, I only did this once before! I don’t know if it even did anything then!”

“Bad at being witch, you need keep eye on the prize,” Svech says in this perfect imitation of Willie when he’s in full-blown disappointed-dad mode. Seb snickers as Dougie reaches out to trap Teuvo in a headlock, both of them trying their hardest to keep their tussling mostly silent. A brilliant smile overtakes Svech’s face as he watches them and he looks as happy as a pig in mud. Warren can’t look away. He very carefully tightens his arm around Svech’s shoulder and takes his first easy breath when Svech presses right back into him.

 

* * *

 

Svech asks Warren to score a goal for him in Game Four. He’s not shy or demure about asking for it. His voice is rock fucking solid, a demand more than a request. “Score a goal for me, Foeg-daddy,” he says, and—

And Warren fucking does, the fastest first goal in franchise history. It feels like the easiest thing in the world, serving up that goal to Svech in seventeen goddamn seconds. The rest of the game is a slog, but the boys are in it to win it. Back on the bench, Marty is screaming, “I’m in love with this whole fucking team!” and the words feel tattooed on Warren’s heart, pulsing with every beat.

After the game Svech tugs him into a bone crushing hug before he’s even out of his pads. He’s sweaty and he stinks and Svech is going to need to dry clean his suit to get the hockey stank out but like…

The Canes came back, they tied the series, and Warren got Svech his goal.

That’s hockey, baby.

 

* * *

 

It’s Dougie’s fault.

He finds the Insta, shares it with them almost as soon as he does, right before the plane to DC and game five takes off. “He went to the tailgates for Games Three and Four and he’s named after _me_ ,” he says, leaning over the seats from the row in front of Svech and Warren. Dougie grins at them, a shock of white teeth against his thickening ginger beard. He reaches over and taps at Warren’s screen, bringing up a picture of a fat black-and-white pig in a red wagon. _Hamilton_ is embossed on the side of the wagon, and the pig gazes serenely into the camera.

It is, and Warren is not ashamed to admit this, an exceedingly cute pig.

Svech wraps his hand around Warren’s, tilting it so he can get a better look at the photo on his phone even though the trainers warned him about _screen time_. He squints and nods knowingly. “Ah yes, I can see you two are family. Look almost the same,” he says, grinning up at Dougie.

Dougie reaches out to cuff him, fond and overly gentle. Svech bats at him but before they can make too much of it, the captain announces over the intercom that the plane will begin takeoff momentarily. Warren buckles his seatbelt as Dougie slides back down into his own seat. He switches the Insta to a timeline view and sets his phone to airplane mode.

Through taxiing and takeoff, Warren grills Svech on the gaps in the Canes plays he sees from the pressbox. Even though they’ve had the conversation at least twice before in the previous twenty four hours, Warren’s more than happy to go over it again. He genuinely loves listening to Svech’s analysis of the game, and it’s an added bonus to see his eyes brighten and his dimples pop.

Once the plane reaches cruising altitude, Warren pulls his phone back out to scroll through more pictures of the pig. It’s not Insta-famous or anything, but there _are_ a few pictures of it at a tailgate before Game Four, decked out in Canes gear, so Warren already loves it. He scrolls through a few more of the pictures, tilting the phone when Svech leans over to look.

“I don’t think I eat barbecue ever again,” Svech says mournfully. He’s got his chin hooked over Warren’s shoulder, watching him scroll through the Insta. It’s pointy where it digs into Warren’s trapezius, but he finds that the warmth and weight of Svech by his side is soothing.

“Me either.”

Warren double taps a picture, the heart popping up and floating across the pig’s adorably upturned snout. Svech makes a noise, a half-considering hum that gets trapped in his throat. A finger comes up to rest on the tip of Warren’s nose.

“Like pig,” Svech declares. “Very cute.”

Warren wrinkles his nose and dislodges the finger, pointedly ignoring the way Svech’s eyes are trained on his face. “Whatever man. Like a pig? Fuck off.”

Svech just snickers and leans harder into him, the point of his chin digging in. Warren rolls his shoulder and leans back until they interlock at softer angles. He keeps scrolling through the pictures of the pig until the plane begins to descend.

 

* * *

 

Just before the game Svech catches him with a hand tucked around his elbow. He gives Warren a little tug and Warren follows him, so easy for this nineteen year old. Svech leads them down the twisting halls of Capital One Arena until the hum and chatter of their teammates and the coaching staff falls away into nothingness. Warren should be afraid of getting lost in enemy territory, but this thought is only secondary to the unfailing trust he places in Svech. Finally, they reach their destination: a nook just barely big enough for two hockey players, wedged in between an electrical closet and a padlocked door labeled, almost ominously, _Pest Control_.

“You gonna get a goal for me again?” Svech asks, softer than last time. Less hurt, less vengeful, somehow sweeter, but just as intense. They’re standing so close and Warren almost just wants to—touch. He places his hand on Svech’s bicep and that’s not quite enough so he slides it up further until he can feel Svech’s collarbone beneath the layers of the suit. It digs into the meat of his palm, warm and alive.

“Of course,” he says, voice low and suddenly it all feels a little too much so he adds, “dude.”

Svech quirks him a crooked smirk, dimples popping. With a pat at Warren’s shoulder he slips out from under his hand to make his way back to the pressbox. Warren watches him go—doesn’t even think about how he’s gonna find the Canes’ locker room again—and thinks, _yeah, I’m gonna get a goal for him_.

 _I’m gonna win this game for him_.

 

* * *

 

Warren doesn’t get a goal for him.

The Hurricanes don’t get any goals, are shut out: a six-fucking-zero loss that hurts like a butcher knife to the thigh.

Warren can’t look Petr in the eyes when they file into the locker room. He can’t look anyone in the eye, stuck staring at the floor as he slowly starts pulling off his gear. Disappointment and dread buzz in his mind, neverending thoughts of _not good enough_ and _have to be better_ cascading into each other until he can barely move his fingers.

The _stupid_ fucking turnover in the second keeps replaying in his mind.

Someone jostles into him and Warren looks up to see Rod standing in the center of the room, his mouth flat and hands tucked into the pockets of his dress pants. Warren feels another wave of disappointment crash over him and he shrinks into his stall.

“Well,” Rod starts, and stops. He casts his gaze across the room and says, “well,” again, like a full stop. Behind him, the injured guys shuffle a little in their gameday suits, anxious with hollow eyes.

Marty looks like he’s gonna cry and like. Big fuckin’ mood, bud.

“I think you all know this,” Rod says, “but we were bad from start to finish. In every aspect of the game, we were outplayed.”

Each word hits like a nail in a coffin, every hurtful truth ringing like a chisel working into a tombstone: _Here Lies the Carolina Hurricanes’ Hopes for a Deep Cup Run. April 11th 2019 - April 20th 2019_.

But Roddy’s always been good at reading the room, and Warren knows this. The head coach looks around at the guys, meets Warren’s gaze straight on for a split second. “I know we can do better,” Rod says, steel in his voice as he paces. “And we will do better. The good news is we still have another day and another game to play. We’ll pick the pieces up, try to get better, and throw everything we can at them the next game.”

The boys muster up a cheer at that, a breath of life waking up the room. Rod nods and makes to leave to talk to the media, nodding at Willie and Staalsy to follow him.

Warren’s eyes flick over to look at Svech and the sudden hurt that wells up inside him makes it feel like he’s been suckerpunched. Svech is tucked away in the furthest corner of the locker room, shoulders hunched in his wrinkled gameday suit. He looks wretched, small and miserable and pretending he isn’t flinching away from the unyielding fluorescent lights. The set of his shoulders and the wetness of his eyes tell Warren all he needs to know about what’s going through Svech’s mind: he blames himself for not being able to play, for being hurt. Like he could have personally prevented all six of those goals, and got the Canes on the board.

Like he could have won the game all by himself.

Warren sniffles and turns away, shame swirling like a tropical depression in his gut.

So much for that fucking _help._

 

* * *

 

Of all people, it’s Jaccob who points it out.

Sweet, optimistic Jaccob. God’s own Jaccob, whose heart is as pure as new fallen snow, who makes Warren feel both better as a person and like sin personified just by being near.

Jaccob, who looks across the long table set up in one of the hotel conference rooms for team breakfast following the absolute _slaughter_ they endured at the hands of the Capitals, Jaccob who looks into the defeated faces of his teammates and declares, “Hamilton the pig is our good luck charm. He’s been sent to help us!”

Teuvo chokes on his eggs, turning red and coughing out half-masticated chunks of yellow. Next to him, Sebastian looks up all wide-eyed, staring unblinkingly at Jaccob. Jaccob politely ignores the mess Teuvo just created and pulls out his phone, showing off an Insta picture of a _very_ familiar pig.

Dougie looks fucking delighted.

Warren—Warren can’t help but turn to Svech, who slowly puts down his fork and blinks back at him. His hair is still bed-mussed and his cheeks are dusted with a sleepy flush. The dark circles beneath his eyes have receded and Warren finds his own eyes drawn to the very light dusting of stubble along his chin.

“ _Help_ us?” Svech repeats, the emphasis catching Teuvo’s attention. The Finn makes frantic cut-it-out signals at Svech who blissfully, obliviously, looks away.

“Of course,” Jaccob says, pulling his phone back briefly to bring up more pictures of Hamilton the pig. “He went to both of our home games. He was at the tailgates by the arena for both our victories. It’s a _sign_ ,” he adds earnestly with a bright smile. The “from God” is very much implied.

Across from Warren, Willie looks up from his crossword puzzle with a raised eyebrow. His reading glasses are slipping down his nose and he looks like such a dad, Warren feels a simultaneous pang of homesickness and nostalgic fondness. “Wait, wait, wait,” he says, “what’s this about a pig?”

Jaccob’s phone gets passed to him and as he scrolls through the photos, the other eyebrow raises to meet its twin. Excitement thrums through Warren as he watches Willie look through the photos of Hamilton. He’s on the edge of his seat, inexplicably eager to hear Willie’s thoughts on Hamilton. The corners of Willie’s lips twitch up as Jaccob and Dougie explain how Hamilton’s owners took him to the tailgate parties for both home games and how he has become the Canes’ unofficial good luck pig.

“And,” Jaccob adds, voice building as he accepts his phone back from Willie, “He’s coming to PNC Arena to see Game Six. One of the media guys told me that he’s getting an _exclusive_ tour of the arena before the game.”

“I want to meet him,” Dougie declares. “Make it a real Ham for Ham.”

He gets shoved and chirped at, the boys calling him a nerd and a dork, but already the mood around the table has lifted considerably. Laughter rings out and Warren can feel the confidence surging back into them like the tide returning.

“Hmm,” Willie hums and goes back to the crossword. He taps his blue ballpoint pen against his lips twice before making a small victorious sound, bringing down his pen to the puzzle. “How serendipitous,” he says, pronouncing each syllable as he fills in the squares. “But remember, boys, we control our own destiny. It’s all in our hands now. We have to _earn_ it.”

This is met with light-hearted grumbles and shouts of “spoilsport!” but Warren’s already turned back to Sebastian and Teuvo. Seb’s pulled out his own phone, staring at what Warren imagines to be more pictures of the pig. Teuvo is talking to him in low, urgent Finnish.

For the first time, Warren allows himself to think, _maybe_.

Svech looks at him, leans in and, very softly—so that no one except Warren can hear—oinks.

 

* * *

 

It’s become a tradition of sorts, Svech pulling him somewhere quiet and out of the way just before the game. Warren can tell that the need to play, to score, to win is burning under his skin, but Rod refuses to clear Svech until the trainers do and god, if that doesn’t make Warren fall just a little bit in love with his coach.

Is this how Marty feels all the time?

Warren is pulled from his thoughts when Svech tucks them into a tiny, dark nook, standing so close Warren can feel his body heat. Something in Warren’s chest tightens up as he looks at him, the sharp edges of his cheekbone and jaw highlighted by a light further down the hallway.

“Hey,” Svech says, looking up at him from under the golden fan of his eyelashes. His voice is so quiet. Warren leans in to hear him, their hands bumping and pressing together. “Score a goal for me?”

They’re so close and Svech is so young, his eyes clear and bright and expectant.

“Yeah,” Warren breathes. “Of course, babe. Bud.”

Svech flushes and Warren _swears_ he can feel the heat coming off Svech’s cheeks, they’re standing so close. The smile he gives Warren is wide and unrepentant and beautiful and Warren can’t help but bask in it a little. Then Svech pushes him off in the direction of the locker room, grinning in the dark when Warren turns back for one last look.

 

* * *

 

For all that the game feels like a whirlwind, Warren knows that it’s _theirs_ from the start. His blood sings with it.

The Caps get on the board first, and Warren _knows_ that Games One through Five have been won by whoever gets a goal first, but Willie’s calm voice hums through his head: _we control our own destiny_. 

He repeats this like a mantra, timing it to the beating of his heart and the pumping of his legs on the ice. Halfway through the first, in the final few seconds of a power play, the puck deflects to the Caps’ zone and Dougie stretches out like no one can believe and gets the puck on his tape. He takes a shot and the puck bounces off Backstrom, skitters across the ice into an open spot that’s free of the flurry of skate blades.

Warren gets it on his stick and even though he’s got four Caps and Holtby between himself and the goal he takes the shot through traffic and— 

_We control our own destiny._

—Holy shit.

Holy _fucking_ shit, it goes in.

He’s still processing it as Jaccob plasters himself along his back in celebration, Dougie following to wrap them both up in his arms. “That’s some pig!” Dougie shouts, barely audible over the roar of the crowd.

Warren blinks at the net, takes in the ref skating over to fish out the puck and thinks, _That’s some pig_.

The Hurricanes come back with a vengeance in the third, Petr showing them all the old Mrázzle Dázzle as he makes save after unbelievable save. Jordy and Willie get on the board with their own goals and Dougie seals it with an empty-netter that sets the crowd on fire all over again. Everytime Warren’s blades touch the ice he feels a surge of confidence and love in his body, spreading through his veins like lightning. He loves this team, he loves this team, _he loves this team_.

The crowd is so loud, so _fucking_ loud, that they can’t even hear the horn for the end of the game.

After media and Rod’s post-game speech, Dougie comes up to Warren, bouncing on the balls of his feet. A manic grin shows whitely in the middle of his ginger beard. Warren can’t help it: he pulls Dougie into another tight hug.

“Tied series, bro!” he hollers.

“Yeah, bud! Hey,” Dougie says, pulling back with a final slap to Warren’s back. “Let’s do it. Let’s meet the pig.”

Warren laughs. “Seriously? We can do that?”

“I asked our people and Hamilton’s still in the building. They’d be totally up for a sweet little meet and greet between us and our little helper.”

Dougie waggles his eyebrows even as Warren slugs him in the shoulder.

Sure enough, not long after that one of the social media people comes by to gather guys for a photoshoot with Hamilton the pig. Some of the older guys have already left to go home to their families and Willie and Petr are still dealing with media. Jaccob looks absolutely delighted and immediately texts Kylie to let her know he’ll be a few minutes late.

When they ask him if he wants to meet Hamilton, Teuvo’s mouth twists to one side and his eyebrows furrow. “I don’t know,” he hedges. “What if there’s some kind of...bad reaction?”

“Are you saying that you might be allergic to a good luck pig?” Dougie asks as he props an elbow up on Teuvo’s shoulder. Teuvo glowers up at him.

“ _No_ , I’m saying I don’t want to touch the pig and _poof_ all our help is gone.”

“Did you seriously just say poof?” Warren asks. Teuvo lets out a wordless sound of frustration and shoos them away, physically pushing them out of his locker space.

“Go, go. Say hello to the pig, thank him, don’t say anything to upset him.”

“Probably don’t mention the porkchops we had for lunch a week ago,” Sebastian adds as he packs up his own bag. He makes no excuses to not meet the pig, just walks out of the room after Teuvo.

A social media intern herds the four of them—Dougie, Warren, Jaccob, and a surprisingly euphoric Mac—to the hallway just outside the locker room, and there he is.

Hamilton is, somehow, both smaller and bigger than Warren was expecting. He fits neatly and patiently in his suped-up red wagon, looking up calmly to take in the newcomers. He snorts gently at them and wags his furred tail in a sweeping motion. It feels like a blessing, or a promise.

Calmness flows through Warren’s body, unlocking his muscles and soothing him like a massage. Next to him, Mac lets out a little gasp of delight. “He’s so good,” he breathes, wearing what Warren would swear is the biggest smile he’s ever seen on Mac’s face.

Dougie and Slavin get to talking with the pig’s owners, asking them about how they got into the Hurricanes, but Warren ignores them in favor of crouching down in front of Hamilton. The pig lifts his snout, whuffling as he bats his long eyelashes and looks back at Warren. Warren has never particularly taken the time to attribute characteristics or personality to pigs, but as he looks at Hamilton, he’s struck by how very honest and gentle he looks.

Hamilton snorts again and closes his eyes in piggy bliss when Warren reaches out to scratch at his ears. Wiry hair tapers into downy fur around the pig’s ears and Hamilton’s tail swishes in contentment when Warren strokes at his chubby cheeks. Beside him, Mac reaches out to pat at the blacker spots on Hamilton’s back, scratching at his rump fondly.

“What a sweet pig,” Mac says reverently and, as if stirred by this praise, Hamilton opens his eyes again. His snout wrinkles but he doesn’t make a sound. Warren peers closer and at once, he and the pig lock eyes.

Again, calmness overwhelms Warren’s system and he feels so at ease and so confident in what the future has in store for him. He wishes Svech were here with him, to share in this pig’s soothing presence. The pig looks up at him and it’s as if Hamilton is staring deeply into his soul. _Don’t worry_ , the pig’s dark gentle eyes say, _You’ve got this_.

 _We’ve got this_ , Warren thinks back at him, scratching at the pig’s ear. He nods once, like a full stop, like he’s making a deal.

Hamilton slowly blinks back.

 

* * *

 

On the morning of Game Seven, the whole team is a mess of nerves. The boys snap at each other in half-hearted attempts to ease the tension. When TVR jokingly suggests Dougie ought to abandon them and run away to the Smithsonian in order to fulfill his _Night at the Museum_ fantasies—an old joke that Warren has seen Dougie shrug off countless times before—his face goes stormy and he disappears into his phone. He swipes through Insta and Twitter at a rapid pace and refuses to talk to anyone for the rest of the morning.

Jaccob stubs his toe and says “fudge” instead of “frick.”

Warren knows without a doubt that the pressure is really getting to them.

They sit through an excruciating video review session. The coaches and experts are cool and collected but Svech, where he’s standing next to Warren, is trembling slightly. He’s still nominally a game-time decision, but they both know Rod isn’t going to play him until he gets a full-contact practice under his belt. It’s driving Svech crazy and Warren desperately wants to reassure him that it’ll all come together, but he doesn’t know what to say.

He places his hand on Svech’s forearm and hopes it’s enough.

The tension builds and builds and builds until it breaks.

Lunch is quiet and strained until suddenly, Dougie gasps, popping up from his phone with a wide grin. In a voice unburdened of the fear of failure, Dougie hollers, “Get ready for the national tour of _Hamilton_ , boys, the pig is making the trek up to DC!”

The boys break into relieved chuckles and whoops, and it finally feels like they can do this. Like they can beat the Caps—the _defending Stanley Cup Champions, the Washington Capitals_ —like they can win Round One and be more than just a wildcard team who’s just happy to be there.

Willie rolls his eyes, all fatherly fondness. He looks one dab or Fortnite dance away from calling them all kids again. “We don’t need some pig of destiny to win this game,” he says and, as the boys boo him mockingly, he adds, “But I suppose having him here won’t hurt.”

Underneath the table, Sebastian kicks at Warren’s ankle as Teuvo smiles down smugly into his glass of water. Dougie slings a friendly arm around his shoulders and Svech’s hand bumps into his where it rests on the table. Their pinkies brush, and Warren has to admit that it doesn’t feel very bros. It hasn’t felt very bros between them for a while.

It does feel nice, though.

 

* * *

 

Before the game, Svech pulls him aside, into a nook Warren thinks of as theirs, even though they’ve used it just once before. Warren isn’t expecting it when Svech pulls him into a tight hug, though he feels like he should have. They’re almost the same height, and their arms fit so nicely tucked around each other. Svech doesn’t say anything, just breathes in and out against Warren’s neck, so Warren takes a breath and says, “You want me to score a goal for you tonight?”

Svech shakes his head, nose dragging along the hairline behind his ear. “No, I just want win tonight. Not for me. For _us_.”

All at once Warren wants to kiss him so badly he shivers with it. This desperate need hits him like hurricane-force winds. He should have expected it—it was all but forecast—but the sheer strength of the need nearly brings him to his knees.

He pulls back from their embrace just long enough to meet Svech’s eyes. They’re bright and wide even in the dark forgotten places of Capital One Arena, like the flash of a skate blade against the ice. Warren knows that if he kissed him now, Svech would kiss back. It would be so soft and so sweet and so good, but…

“Later,” Warren says and he doesn’t miss how almost embarrassingly rough his voice has gone. “After, uh. We’ll win the game, we’ll win it for us, and then—”

“And then,” Svech agrees. His arms squeeze around Warren one more time and then release. The tension between them is broken, but Warren feels almost energized by it. They part to go their separate ways but not before Svech says, “Don’t let pig down, Foeg-daddy.”

“The pig better not let _me_ down!” Warren laughs and makes his way to the locker room.

 

* * *

 

“God it feels like this game’ll last for _all time_ ,” someone gasps on the bench. It might be Kegger. Personally, Warren thinks that if they still have the breath to talk, then they aren’t working hard enough.

They’ve pulled themselves up through two two-point deficits, tied the game, and fought through one overtime.

After coming this far, Warren will _not_ have this taken away from them. Not when every man on the ice is giving his all, _earning_ it.

Behind the bench, Rod pushes them, yelling just loud enough to be heard over the waning energy of the crowd, “Come on boys. We’re better conditioned than them, we’ve got the legs they don’t. Keep outplaying them, get the puck to the zone and follow through!”

A second—or maybe a third or fourth at this point—wind sweeps through the bench, the boys perking up and jostling each other, eyes trained on the ice. Warren stops thinking about the maybes, stops worrying about the possibility of a _triple fucking overtime_ , and instead focuses on the puck and his teammates around him.

And then Ginner, fuckin’ goal-post Ginner, Mr. Big Cock Brock McGinn himself, gets his stick down just in time to deflect a beauty Hail Mary of a pass from Willie into the goal and that’s it, that’s _fucking it_.

Everyone throws themselves on the ice before they even register the goal horn, skating like they haven’t just played a game and a half of hockey, screaming and piling on each other like a wave crashing onto the beach. Warren thinks he flung himself onto Jaccob, but he’s not sure, mind a whirl of victory and palpable relief.

“Mr. Game Seven!” Ginner screams from somewhere deep in the pile of white jerseys, “Mr. Game-fucking-Seven!”

“That’s hockey, baby!”

“We fucking did it, boys!”

And Warren can barely think, can barely breathe, for how hard he’s yelling and smiling. They fucking did it. They’re going to the second round.

After that, everything’s just a blur of whoops and headpats. As soon as he gets to the locker room, he zeroes in on Svech. He’s standing near Warren’s stall, creases in his dress pants where he gripped at his knees throughout the game. When he sees Warren, he smiles so wide it nearly splits his face in half.

Warren pushes his teammates aside until he’s there in front of Svech and they fall into each other’s arms hugging and yelling and maybe crying, but just a little.

“You did it, you did it!” Svech shouts, like, _right_ into his ear. Warren’s still dressed out—he still has his gloves and helmet on, for fuck’s sake—but he presses right into Svech’s hold and holler’s back, “We fucking did it!”

Warren has half a mind drag Svech back to their nook, do more than just whisper promises and holler in victory to each other. Before he can do anything about it, the boys start yelling again as Rod and Willie finally get to the locker room, cheers of “Mr. Game Seven” overwhelming Warren’s senses.

Willie stands in front of them, exhausted but so _, so_ proud. He doesn’t say anything, waiting for the boys to quiet down around him. Suddenly, a bright grin lights up his face, his blue eyes fucking sparkling in the locker room light. “Radiant,” he says. “Terrific.” 

His eyes do a slow sweep of the men in front of him and he pronounces, “Some pig.”

The locker room erupts in cheers.

 

* * *

 

Later—after the media, after the bus ride, after they peel out of their gameday suits and crawl into pajama pants and tee shirts with stretched out necks—Svech and Warren sit propped up against each other in one of the beds in the hotel room. Warren can feel the movement of Svech’s shoulder against his with every breath he takes, can hear the soft whistling noise his nose makes because DC pollen seems to affect him more than Raleigh pollen. The room is nearly dark, with only the light of their phones and the bedside table lamp set to the dimmest setting.

They’re ignoring all the texts and tweets and other notifications in favor of scrolling through Hamilton’s Insta profile on Warren’s phone as the adrenaline leaves their bodies. They reach the end of the profile and select the earliest picture of Hamilton: a tiny piglet staring calmly into the camera, his pink and black snout glistening gently. The photo is over a year old, dated February 20, 2018. 

“You don’t—” Svech starts. Warren turns to look at him, his edges fuzzy and young in the bedside lamplight. “What we did after game two. Could we have…?”

Warren knows what he’s asking. They’re still in shock: it’s hard to believe that they really beat the Metro Division leaders in the Stanley Cup playoffs. It’d be so easy to blame it on dumb luck, blame it on some benevolent pig de— _helper_ a handful of rookies and young guys summoned in a DC hotel room.

But. 

“Nah,” he says, tired but confident. “Nah. You saw how we played. You _felt_ how we played. We’re good, we _earned_ it. No demons, no helpers. Just one hundred percent pure jerks out there, baby.”

Svech snorts and smiles at him and something lights up inside Warren, tingling his fingertips and lips like strong vinegary barbecue sauce. They’re sitting so close on the bed, with no space in between them. The warm line of Svech’s thigh against his is both intoxicating and familiar. 

“Besides,” Warren says and briefly loses track of what he’s saying when Svech’s tongue darts out to lick at his lips. He swallows hard and forces himself to look back up, meet Svech’s eyes. “Besides,” he tries again, “us summoning a helper doesn’t explain why all the _other_ wild card teams made it past round one too.”

“Stars get a cow for April Fools,” Svech says. Maybe it’s the dimness of the room, maybe it’s the adrenaline crash, but it’s almost like Svech is leaning in closer. “Cow could be helper. Or Gritty.”

“Gritty?”

Svech hums. “Wild fur, crazy eyes? Legs like Baba Yaga’s house? Could cast spell, no problem. Make us good, make us like _magic_.”

He barely finishes the word _magic_ before he’s kissing Warren.

It’s soft and sweet, dripping in exhaustion and drenched in victory. Their lips press together, dry and chaste, as the tips of their noses glance against each other. Warren’s stomach swoops and he brings his free hand up to grip at the cap of Svech’s shoulder, thrilling at how warm and sturdy it is.

Svech pulls back, his eyelashes fluttering. His lips stretch into a smile and he ducks his head, cheeks rosy, so sweetly smug. Something pulls at Warren’s chest, makes him ache, and it takes him a hot second to realize that he’s smiling so wide his cheeks hurt. He drops his phone down on the other side of the bed and rests his hand on Svech’s jaw, sweeping his thumb across stubbornly smooth skin and along the sharp line of Svech’s cheekbone. Warren feels Svech’s hand land on his hip and squeeze as he leans in for another kiss.

The hand on his hip squeezes again when Warren parts his lips, turning the kiss syrupy and slightly wetter. Svech breathes out hard from his nose and Warren backs off just enough to ask, his lips still moving against Svech’s, “Is this alright?”

With a sharp, disbelieving noise, Svech ducks back in for another kiss. Warren’s fingers migrate back until they’re buried in the fine hair at the back of Svech’s head, gently tilting him until they slot together at a better angle.

“Yeah,” Warren breathes when they part for breath long minutes later. Svech’s lips are red and wet and Warren can’t keep his eyes off them. “Yeah, that’ll do, babe.”

They shift until they’re lying down facing each other, still kissing softly. It’s late, nearly the witching hour all over again, and Warren is nearly delirious with exhaustion and the feel of Svech’s lips and fingers and their sad excuse for playoff beards rasping against their cheeks. 

They fall asleep curled into each other. The morning, golden and new, waits for them. 

 

**Author's Note:**

> listen listen listen, I _know_ professional hockey players wouldn’t just eat barbecue and suck down sweet tea all willy nilly. I _know_ that’s not in their diet plan. please, I am but a poor durhamite trapped in a city that doesn’t do barbecue right—I have to _ask_ for vinegar-based sauce, it’s a _travesty_ —let me live out my nostalgic fantasies.
> 
> also, I promise I did not write this from Foegs’ perspective just because my father Justin Williams described him as a horse.
> 
> you can find me [on tumblr](https://http://dalmatienne.tumblr.com) going absolutely feral over my sweet sweet PLAYOFFS storm boys.


End file.
